Knowing
by brutalbloodycato
Summary: Seamus is under the impression that Dean doesn't trust him after facing a boggart and not explaining what had happened or what it meant. - Dean/Seamus
1. Chapter 1

Dean stumbled back, crashing into the edge of his four-poster bed. He could feel his stomach lurching, feel his heart pounding in his chest, could feel a shriek building in his throat. _Don't_, he tried to catch himself, tried to calm down. _Don't yell. Relax._

But despite the comforting words he fed himself, he still couldn't tear his eyes away from the form in front of him. A perfect replica of himself; the same Hogwarts uniform, same frizzled black hair, same dark brown eyes, same faint birthmark on the scruff of his neck. It was unreal. _Exactly_, he thought, trying to steady his heartbeat, _It's not real._

"Ri-Riddikulus," he said, his voice strained. _No. That's not going to do_. He cleared his throat. "Riddikulus!"

The boggart slowed, tilting its head with an eyebrow quirked. Dean stepped back, gripping the bed posts behind him loosely. It was just _him_, for crying out loud! Why was it so goddamn hard? Yet he knew the answer the moment the door had swung open. He _knew_ why his heart was thudding in his throat, why his palms were covered in a layer of sweat, why his throat was raw and dry and why he couldn't stop his body from trembling.

"Riddikulus! Ri - Ridd - _Riddikulus_!" Damnit, why wouldn't it _work_?

And then another sound joined his own heavy breaths, something loud and high-pitched, something that sent a shiver down his spine and cause him to yell while dropping his wand. "Out! Out of this home! Get out! How _dare_ you commit a sin like _that_? Out!"

He dropped to his knees, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. Mum, I'm so _sorry_. I'm sorry... I'm sorry, Mum. Mum, _please_..."

Dean was only faintly aware of a pair of arms hoisting him to his feet, of the loud, Irish voice booming in his ears. "What's happening? Dean, why're - why's there - wait a sec..." His voice faltered as he fiddled with his robes, pulling from a pocket his wand. Dean shook his head, still repeating his apologies, still feeling a weight hard and heavy on his shoulders. "Riddikulus!"

When he looked up next, his boggart had been replaced by a tall woman with braided hair, her mouth agape and her hands clutching at her neck, but Dean paid her no heed when he clambered quickly to his feet. He shook away Seamus's hands, feeling a lump form in his throat, and rushed toward the door.

His legs buckled under his weight when he reached the Lake, and he collapsed in a crying heap with his head buried in his hands and his long limbs close to his body. _I'm sorry_, he thought desperately, that shrill voice still echoing in the back of his head, _I'm so, so sorry_.

When Seamus returned to the dorm-room after dinner, he was almost overwhelmed with relief. Dean sat on his four-poster, his chin resting on his knees as he cradled them, and he did not stir at the Irish boy's arrival, he only continued to stare out the window, transfixed.

"Mate?" Seamus said, fiddling with his tie as he stepped forward. Flames in the centre of the room cast orange light on his skin, dancing with the natural light-pink. He raised an eyebrow when he received no response, stepping forward at the lack of recognition. "Dean?"

Dean shook his head, sighing. "Seamus."

"What s'matter?" Seamus asked, sitting down on the edge of his own bed. "You skipped all classes today - very un-Dean of you."

"You know what's the matter," Dean muttered.

"The boggart?"

"No, Seamus, it's because it's that time of the month. What do _you_ think?"

"Could be either with that mood." He paused. "Dean, I don't understand... how did _that_ affect you so much... I mean, it was just you."

"It's not that simple. And - and I _heard_ something..." Dean shook his head. "Don't worry. I'll get over it."

"What'd you hear? I won't tell anyone if you don't want me to. Promise."

"I know you wouldn't, I just don't think it would be smart. It's not your fault, Shay."

Seamus looked down at his hands, frowning. "And you're sure you don't want to talk about it? That... that _thing_ got you pretty bad, mate. It might help to talk."

"I - I really don't think so..."

"Oh," Seamus said, nodding slightly. "Right. Well... well if you're really sure..."

"I'm not. But I'm not sure I want to talk about it, either."

"Right."

"Thanks, though."

"No problem."

Seamus turned on his heels, ready to go down to the common-room and relish in the warmth and liveliness accompanied, but he stopped abruptly, his fingers grazing the wall. He turned to face Dean, who still stared into space with his long limbs gathered around his torso, and felt his shoulders sag. His best friend didn't trust him. _Why_ didn't his best friend trust him? And why did knowing that make him feel as though he'd failed?

"Dean?" The boy looked up when addressed, raising an eyebrow. Seamus cleared his throat. "Er - when you _do_ decide you want to talk about it... just - just find me, right? I'll listen. Promise."

Dean smiled meekly. "Thanks, mate. I'll do that."


	2. Chapter 2

Dean hadn't recovered. It was obvious, Seamus thought; Dean's characteristics were different, his movements more hesitant. The only visible difference to anyone besides his best mate was, perhaps, the subtle purple edging its way around his eyes. Other than that, everyone else seemed to think he was fine. That he was better. But Seamus _knew_. Seamus knew whenever he look across the table during breakfast, or lunch, or dinner; he knew whenever they sat next to each other in classes and Dean would only grin slightly whereas he used to laugh; he knew when Dean would wake in the middle of the night, sweat gathered on his brow, with his breaths loud and uneven. Seamus _knew_, and yet he could do nothing.

He had tried, on several occasions, to get Dean to confide in him. The first time was in the common-room, the weekend following the event, when Seamus had first noticed Dean's new habits. His squeezing into the corner of the couch the moment Seamus sat, his blatant lies, his fake expressions. Seamus could so easily see them forming right in front of his eyes, and it had been hard to not be blunt when asking.

"You all right?"

Simple. Calm. Collected.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Liar.

"You sure?"

_Talk to me_.

"Certain, mate."

The second was while they walked to lunch, the week following, and Dean looked even worse. There was something different in his eyes, Seamus noted, listening to their footsteps with pursed lips. He looked almost ill. He lacked his usual glow, he barely ever smiled, he was stiff at the slightest of contact and he seemed to have crawled into some form of shell. So when Seamus asked, once more, "You all right, Dean?", Dean only looked at him.

"Of course I am."

Pause.

"And you're sure?"

"Completely."

The third and final time was in the middle of the night, a week after, when Seamus' eyes had snapped open to hear Dean moving in the bed opposite him. Even in the darkness, Seamus could see the panic-stricken expression etched across his best mate's face, could see his slender fingers clasping the space around him, could see him bury his head in his hands and shake his head profusely.

"Dean? You O.K?"

"What? Oh, Seamus... I - yeah. I'm fine."

Seamus hadn't bothered asking if he was sure, certain that the response he'd get would be no different from the rest. Yet he hadn't slept that night. He only listened to Dean's uneven breathing, listened to his quiet, incoherrent murmurs, to the gentle movement of his sheets when he turned. From that point, Seamus was convinced. Dean didn't trust him. There was _something_ gnawing at his best mate from the inside, and yet he could do nothing. Dean had put up walls around him.

And he _knew_ he shouldn't have disturbed that. He knew that, when Dean had closed the shutters, he should respect the decision and should just _wait_. But Dean didn't trust him. Had Dean ever trusted him? Seamus had told him everything there was to know about himself; why his boggart was a banshee, why he always double-tied his shoes, why he liked to sleep with the window open, why always slept with three pillows on his bed. And yet Dean never told him anything. _Dean didn't trust him_. And that made his stomach twinge with irritation.

Seamus found Dean sitting in the dorm-room, tugging his shoelaces. "Anything you're not telling me?" Seamus said quickly, and Dean jumped before turning to face him.

"What d'you mean?"

Dean's eyes were lined with purple. His cheek-bones were prominent. He kept his movements limited and his conversations short. He barely ever smiled. Three weeks and two days, and Seamus _knew_.

"What do you _think_?" Seamus snapped. "I _know_, Dean. I know you're avoiding the problem. Have you seen yourself lately? You're a wreck, you are. Do you think I didn't notice? Do you think I'm _stupid_?"

"W-What? No, of course not. Shay, I don't know what you're talking about." Dean's brow furrowed. "And I don't have a problem."

"Yes, you do. And you're avoiding it right now!" Seamus' voice rose and he tugged at his tie, his thin lips tight in a scowl. "You never tell me anything, you know? Best mates since first year, and _nothing_. I don't know anything about you!"

"_I_ never tell you anything? What are you talking about? What's gotten into you?" Dean asked, frowning. "You're a fucking arsehole, you know that?""

"_You're_ a prat! I - I don't even know who you are!"

"How do you not know who I am? I tell you loads of things, and the one time I want to keep something to myself, you go ballistic!"

"You keep _everything_ to yourself!"

"Well you're always ballistic!"

"Well - well you're a berk!"

"Eejit!"

"Git!"

"You frustrate me to no end, you know? Why don't you just do me a favour and get out?" Seamus noted how Dean balled his fists at his side while he spoke.

"Fine!" Seamus said. "Fine. Just fine. I don't care. Whatever."

He left with his heart in his throat, with guilt churning his stomach. He shouldn't have done that. Shouldn't have yelled. When Dean put the barriers up, it was best to leave him. It was best to wait it out until he was ready. But Seamus was impatient, and Dean was a slow healer, and Seamus _knew_ and yet he couldn't help himself.


	3. Chapter 3

It was rare that Seamus ever admitted that he felt bad. It went against his style. He would acknowledge a feeling inside him - something stirring and painful and enough to make him feel physically ill - but he would blame nerves, or food, or anything _but_ feeling bad. Now was different. Now Seamus _knew_ he felt bad, and he knew he had to do something about it. He spoke out of term. Dean needed time, and that had never been something Seamus could understand.

He knew, now more than ever, that he had screwed up. When he walked upstairs to the dorm-room after a hasty goodbye to Neville and the Weasley twins, a lump formed in his throat at the sight of Dean. He had tried to avoid him at all costs, knowing of the way his stomach would twist when he met that chocolate brown gaze, and it had gone well. He would wait until Dean was fast asleep before he calm to bed. He would sit on the other side of the room in classes. He would even go so far as to sit at the front of the Gryffindor table during meals.

But now he felt that tug in his stomach, and he felt his lips go dry, and he knew he had to say _something_, only he didn't know what. He wanted to smile, or to reach out and embrace Dean like old times, or apologise; above all, he knew, was that he wanted to go back. He wanted to take back those words. Those yells. He wanted Dean to be his best mate again, and he wanted to forget. But the words wouldn't come, and the moment wasn't right, and Dean had left the room before Seamus remembered how to speak.

"Dean..." His voice faltered as the footsteps faded and he was alone. He swallowed his heart, beating rapidly in his throat, and moved quickly to his bed.

A small note sat, folded, on his pillow, and Seamus _knew_ that writing. Seamus recognised that slanted, scrunched together, small writing as that which had once replied to his own. He leaned forward, picking it up gently. Lips a thin line, he sat at the edge of his bed, turning the paper in his fingers. Trust Dean to _write_ to him. Dean was better writing his words, Seamus had found out over the years. Dean also had a way with colours, too, and his favourite was green, because it reminded him of spring, and he wanted to be an artist in the muggle world, and Seamus _knew_ and that was why his stomach lurched.

He unfolded the parchment, his eyebrows drawn.

_Seamus._

_When we were twelve, you found my sketchbook. Most drawings were in black and white, and when you asked why I didn't use colour, I told you I didn't see the world that way. _

_When we were thirteen, you found my sketchbook again, and I'd walked into the dorm-room to see you sprawled across my bed, going through the pages. When you said you thought my drawings still looked dark, I told you that the world was dark, too._

_When we were fourteen, I asked you what your favourite colour was. You said red, and I nodded, and then that night I drew something that colour, and when you saw it you said it was your favourite, and I told you to keep it if you wanted to._

_A few months later, you asked what job I wanted. I said I'd always aspired to be an artist in the muggle world, and you'd smiled before asking if I had a favourite colour yet. I said green because it reminded me of spring, but there had always been other reasons for that, too._

_You said you didn't know anything about me, but I left a lot of clues._

_I don't want to keep this thing to myself anymore. I lied when I said I was fine, and I lied when I said you were an arsehole, and I lied when I said you were ballistic, and I lied - just a little - when I told you about my favourite colour._

_I'm sorry._

_Dean._


	4. Chapter 4

"Dean?" Seamus called, and he watched as his breath made wisps of white dance before his eyes. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, ignoring the way his body trembled in the cold air. "Dean!"

The figure ahead of him stopped, turning slightly. In the limited light cast from the moon and the swaying trees shadowing the school, blacks and whites twirled across his face. "Seamus," Dean said quietly, his voice strained in the cold weather. "I - I'm..."

"Shut up, you tosser," Seamus interrupted him, scrunching the letter in the pocket of his pants. "A note? Really, Dean? A _note_? You couldn't just come talk to me, could you? Always the bloody creative one."

"Seamus..." said Dean warily, his own hands fumbling in the pockets of his thick jacket. Seamus had always noticed those habits of Dean's; the way he shifted if uncomfortable or awkward, the way he swallowed when he couldn't find the words to say, or the way he kept his gaze on the ground when he felt bad.

"You - you don't have to tell me," Seamus blurted. "I'm sorry, mate. I crossed the line. I did, Dean, don't even try to deny it," he added, as Dean's mouth opened the slightest to speak. "You don't have to tell me anything. I was being stupid."

"No," Dean muttered, shaking his head and looking down. "I'm sorry. You were right: you're my best mate. I should've told you."

"You're not even listening to me. You don't have to tell me, Dean. No. You're not going to tell me. Don't do it."

"I'm going to have to tell you at some point, Shay..."

Seamus put his hands over his ears. "Don't have a clue what you're talking about, mate."

"Come off it!" called Dean, a small smile edging its way onto his lips. "I'm serious - stop." When Seamus made no attempt to move, Dean stepped forward and grabbed his arms, pulling them away quickly. "Stop being a prat!"

Seamus' skin prickled where Dean's fingertips gingerly traced. He furrowed his brow. Why did his skin do that?

"Fine," the Irish wizard said. "If you _insist_, I mean..."

Dean laughed. "Ballistic, you are."

"Berk." Seamus grinned.

"Git."

"No, I'm an eejit - _you're_ a git. Can't you get this right?"

"Sorry. _Eejit_. Better?"

"No, it still hurts all the same."

Seamus _knew_, and yet he didn't want to admit to it. So he shook Dean off and put his hands back into his pockets, and he smiled a little when Dean rolled his eyes at him. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I just... I thought you didn't trust me. Stupid, innit?"

"No, Shay, I want to tell you. You were right when you said I didn't tell you anything. And you were right when you said I was avoiding the problem. And you were right when you -"

"Dean, c'mon," said Seamus, amused. "I was being a prick, so nothing I said was right."

"Everything you said was right."

"Sod off. Now, are you going to tell me, or are you planning some kind of scheme to get me caught out of bed after curfew?"

"Some scheme, definitely. Everything I've done in the last few weeks has been leading up to this. Perfect, if I do say so myself. Honestly, I'll never understand why I wasn't sorted into Slytherin..."

Seamus nudged him and Dean laughed, and the sound was almost soothing to the Irish boy's ears, and he realised just how much he'd missed his best mate, and just how glad he was to have him back, and just how much he didn't care about anything else besides that.

Dean took a deep breath, frowning. "All right. You saw my boggart, Seamus. Tell me what it was."

Frowning, Seamus tried to remember. "It was you."

"Right. And what was I doing?"

"Walking out of a wardrobe."

"Er - rephrase that."

"Coming out of a wardrobe?"

"Almost there."

"Walking out of a closet?"

"You're an idiot."

"Coming out..." Seamus felt his heart skip a beat, felt his knees momentarily buckle, felt his eyes widen and his throat go raw. Seamus _knew_, and Dean wanted him to, and why did his heart flutter at the very concept? He swallowed, continuing quietly. "Coming out of the closet. You - You were _coming out of the closet_. And you heard something... what - what was it?"

Dean gulped, fiddling with his jacket. "She was kicking me out of the house. She..." his voice turned into a sob and Seamus stepped forward instinctively, placing his hand on Dean's arm. "She - she said I'd sinned and I..." He shook his head.

"It's all right, Dean," Seamus said quietly. "It's going to be all right."

"I'm s-so sorry..."

Tears rolled down Dean's cheeks and Seamus felt his stomach twist. He did the first thing he thought of and wrapped his arms around Dean's torso, gripping tight, and in that moment Seamus didn't only know but was completely certain. He _knew_ why his skin prickled and why his heart fluttered and why the idea of Dean not trusting him made him angry and why whenever he felt bad it seemed to always relate to _Dean_.

"It's okay, mate," he whispered, rubbing Dean's back. "I swear. It's okay."

"You're my best friend, Shay," Dean said, his breath fanning Seamus' ear, the feeling sending a shiver through his spine. "I never want to lose you."

And Seamus knew.

He knew that he was smitten for Dean Thomas. That he had been for a number of years. That he wanted to know what his lips felt like against his own. He knew that Dean was gay. That Seamus was the only one that he'd told. He knew that they were best mates. That nothing should ever get in between that.

And he knew, most of all, that he had absolutely no chance.


	5. Chapter 5

He watched, transfixed, as his own body closed the distance. His cheeks were burning red and flakes of snow melted in his hair, and his hands were fumbling from his pockets and to the sides of the much taller figure opposite him. Their lips were close, their faces hovering inches before each other, and his eyelids had fallen shut while standing on the tips of his toes to reach _him_. Him, who he had seen so many times before and had always unconsciously longed for this moment.

Seamus Finnigan quickly pushed the crystal ball so that the image before him blurred.

Coughing as he picked it back up with trembling fingers, he tried to regain an air of coolness as Dean sat beside him, grinning slightly. "You all right, Shay?" he asked, and his voice resembled the normalcy of before all of these _thoughts_ had started forming. "You look sick."

"Sick? _Ha_!" Seamus rolled his eyes, trying to smile. Underneath the table, his foot nervously tapped the ground. Dean hadn't seen. There was no way he could've. _Dean didn't know_. And Seamus wasn't particularly sure if he wanted that. "I'm Irish, Thomas. I don't _do_ sick."

"Right. How could I forget?"

"Lucky you have me to remind you, ey?"

"I'd say unfortunate."

Seamus mocked pain. "That hurt, Dean." He pointed at his chest. "Right in there!"

"Other side," Dean said knowingly. Seamus raised an eyebrow. "Your heart? It's on the other side."

"I bloody knew that!" Seamus felt warmth rising to his cheeks.

"Of course you did, mate."

"I _did_. Don't _you_ try and make me look stupid!"

"You do that well enough on your own."

"Watch it, Thomas."

"Could say the same to you, Finnigan."

* * *

"It's snowing," Dean mumbled, lowering his copy of the Daily Prophet and raising his eyebrows. "A bit early, isn't it?"

Seamus felt his stomach churn as he forced his lips into a smile. "It's never too early for snow, Dean. Don't be stupid."

"He has a point. It _is_ a bit too soon for snow, isn't it?" came Hermione's voice from across the table. Her bushy hair fell across her shoulders, framing a face with arched eyebrows and pursed lips.

Seamus rolled his eyes. "Does it matter?"

"I _guess_ not..."

"Exactly," the Irish wizard clambered to his feet, deciding that he was no longer hungry. His heart thudded in his chest, and the scene he'd witnessed in the crystal ball continued to play before his eyes. _Closing the distance... _When had he become so... so _infatuated_ with his best mate? When had Dean Thomas become so goddamn attractive?

_When he suddenly became available_.

He shook his head, grinning slightly at the curious looks shot in his direction. "Not hungry. Think I'll go up and get a coat... it's gonna be freezing, right?"

Dean smiled, something that Seamus had long-since added to his list of favourite trait of his best mate's. "Right. I'll see you later, yeah? Same old place?"

"You bet," Seamus said, straightening up. He inclined his head toward Hermione in silent farewell before turning and heading back toward the dorm-room.

Seamus Finnigan had never been bright. He barely managed to do well in his exams, had a fairly low IQ, was prone to causing explosions and starting arguments, and could almost never make the right decision. But now, he realised, he was certain of one thing. He was smitten for Dean sodding Thomas. He didn't know when he had come to that revelation, but, the moment he had, everything became clearer. His fascination with Dean's instinctive movements, the way his hands moved when he drew, how he looked when something bothered him. It all made sense. And yet, despite how glad he was to have discovered these feelings, he had never felt more stupid.

Dean was his best mate. Had been since their first year at Hogwarts. Sure, he was gay, which meant there was a slight chance that they _could_ have something, but Dean saw Seamus in a completely platonic light, a fact that had been proven on numerous occasions. Seamus furrowed his brow, fumbling up stairs. _You're my best friend, Shay_. Those words had rung in his head for days. _I never want to lose you_.

He shook his head, choosing not to remember that night. Seamus fiddled with the door-knob before entering, trying to keep his mind from wandering. It did that often, he supposed. During class or tests, during meal times or when he was with friends. Of recent, he found, he thought of Dean. He didn't spend time questioning why anymore, however. He already knew.

Seamus let out a long sigh, shifting on his feet to grab a coat he kept in the bottom of his trunk. With a forceful yank, he pulled it out from beneath a stack of other clothes. It was green and black and a year old, and he could so easily remember the first time he had worn it. It earned Dean's appraisal, he recalled. Green had always been Dean's favourite colour, in stark contrast to Seamus's red.

He shrugged feebly. Why did everything relate to Dean? Every thought, every breath, everything he did. But he knew, did he not? Dean was green and Seamus was red, and they fit together like paint on a canvas. Did Dean know that, too? Surely not. But they fit, and that was all Seamus cared for. All Seamus _wanted_ to care for. All Seamus knew.

They _fit_, and that was all that truly mattered.


	6. Chapter 6

Seamus was running.

Dean looked up, his eyebrows arched in silent question. _Why_ was Seamus running? It was cold and his skin was pale even from such a distance, and Dean could trace the redness of his best mate's nose, of his cheeks, with just his eyes. Could trace the freckles on Seamus's nose and the burn marks on his chin. It was a sight he was used to. A sight he trusted.

"Hey," he called out, raising his arm to wave.

He would draw that scene one day. He would use a pencil and he would start with the blankets of snow surrounding them, then move on to the shifting trees, then the frozen lake beside him. He would make it over-the-shoulder. From the perspective of someone behind him. That way, when someone looked back on the drawing, they would know. They would understand. He would call it Knowing, and he would only use shades of green and red, because it would be _their_ artwork. _Their_ story.

Seamus skidded to a halt, panting. His sandy-brown hair fell in waves across his brow, almost covering his eyes, and Dean wanted no more than to push it back and scold him for letting it all grow out so long. But he didn't, of course, because the scene had not yet played out, and nor had their story. So Dean laughed and leaned back, shuddering against the cold touch of winter.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"I - I have to ask you something." Seamus straightened up, one of his hands holding onto the tree nearby to keep him balance.

Dean tilted his head. "What is it?"

"Your favourite colour. It's green, right? Because of Spring?" said Seamus. "In - in that letter, you said there were other reasons. What are they, Dean? What are the reasons?"

"Oh," Dean mumbled, blinking in confusion. Why did he have to ask, when everything was going so well? He swallowed his pounding heart. "Well, because green is known as the colour of Ireland, y'know? And you were my first real friend, too, so I thought it was fitting, I guess."

"So that's why," Seamus said, smiling. "It's because of me."

Dean shrugged. "Yeah. You're - uh - my best mate."

"You're an artist," stated Seamus. "Do green and red go well together?"

"I - I guess," Dean answered, frowning at his hands. His cheeks burnt against the cold breeze, and he could scarcely hear over the beating of his heart. He felt embarrassed, even though he was almost certain that he had managed to confess his feelings with great subtlety. Seamus couldn't know. There was no way. "They're the colours of Christmas, and - and they give off a vibe like that. I like them together," he added as an afterthought.

"I like them too," Seamus admitted. "You remember my favourite colour, yeah?"

Dean didn't hesitate to answer. "It's red."

"That's right. Red and green. They fit, right? They go well together."

"What are you getting at, Seamus? You're confusing the bloody hell out of me."

Seamus grinned. "We fit, too. Don't you think so?"

"Are you feeling well?" Dean asked. "First you skip a meal, and now you're acting like a lunatic. Do you need me to take you to Madam Pomfrey?" He stood up, frowning. "I'm going to take you."

"No!" said Seamus, waving his arms. "No, Dean, I'm fine! I'm fantastic, actually. Don't look at me like that, I _am_. Don't you know? I know. I've known for a while, in fact. I think you have, too."

"Know what? That you're nuts?"

"No, that _I_ fancy you!"

Dean froze.

Why did his body go rigid now, when he needed it most? Why did his voice fail him, his legs go numb? There was so much for him to say, to admit, to _do_. He needed to go to Seamus and embrace him, to know what their lips felt like together. He fumbled for words, for an action that seemed fitting. But his mind could scarcely process it all. Could not make sense of everything.

Red and green. Red was Seamus and green was Dean, and - and they fit, didn't they? Seamus thought they did. No, Seamus _knew_ they fit. Maybe Dean knew that, too. Maybe he had known all along, but had been too afraid to admit to it. It was conceivable, of that he was certain. And he wanted it. And Seamus wanted it. They both wanted it, and all that was stopping them was his dry throat and his motionless body.

Seamus was advancing. He was closing the distance. He was coming so close that his body touched Dean's. Nothing was stopping them now. The world was spinning and there was movement in his joints. He leaned forward so that Seamus could reach, and the rest was instinctive. And he liked it. He liked the way Seamus felt with his frame against Dean's, and he liked the warmth that accompanied his touch.

He would paint a drawing some day. That drawing would be called Knowing, though no-one besides them would know why. It would be red and green because those colours fit. Because those colours were _their_ colours. It would tell a story. _Their_ story. And, maybe some day, a couple would look at the artwork. Maybe they would say that they fit together, just like _they_ had. Maybe they would understand why it was called Knowing.


End file.
